


It’s Always Lose, Lose

by faerie_wings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Drabble, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:42:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22162753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerie_wings/pseuds/faerie_wings
Summary: Jaskier thinks that it’s so ironic that he's spent the last few years of his life expecting to be killed by a monster while on his adventures with Geralt and the minute they split their tentative partnership he's stabbed through the chest by random bandits.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 170





	It’s Always Lose, Lose

Your first thought is that you won’t survive this day. It’s a legitimate concern but somehow you’re not too worried. Or maybe you are, it’s all very unclear right now, especially with the giant gaping hole through your torso. You’re tempted to laugh, it’s so ironic that you spent the last few years of your life expecting to be killed by a monster while on your adventures with Geralt and the minute you’ve split your tentative partnership you’re stabbed through the chest by random bandits.

You feel the laugh bubbling up your throat, but no, that’s blood, pushing up and into your mouth, and the taste of iron precedes the immediate pile of vomit that is wrenched from your stomach, colouring the ground in front of you and your blue silk pants a deep and nasty red. It hits you that you’ll never see Geralt again, you’ll never play your lute again, never sing again. A deep sadness wells up inside of you, you’re going to die today, and you’ll die alone, friendless and without anyone around to help. 

A tear drips down your cheek. You want to reach for your lute, want to sing one last song, and maybe this will be your ultimate masterpiece, maybe this will be the song that will last so much longer than you ever lasted, and wasn’t that what you wanted? To be remembered? To have your songs sung forevermore? 

Yes, you acknowledge, but not like this, you protest,  _ never  _ like this. You wanted to be remembered for your talent, not your tragic and meaningless death, you wanted to be remembered as the greatest bard ever, not for your adventures with an ungrateful witcher. It’s tragic, almost, and it makes you want to compose a mournful lament for all that could have been and never will ever again. It makes you want to mourn for the failings of your soul, it makes you want to beg Geralt to never forget you through the medium of ballads sang of Jaskier the bard. 

Jaskier. It makes you laugh that you’ll never be remembered for your name, that no one will know you for Julian, that no one will ever know who you once were, that you introduce yourself as Jaskier, just Jaskier. Not Jaskier of Wherever. Not like Geralt of Rivia, not like Yennefer of Vengerberg. You never belonged anywhere, not like they did, once upon a time, and it’s so sad that Geralt had never seen that, had never recognised the desperate loneliness in his eyes. Then again, had Geralt ever truly been lonely?

You cough up more blood. You doubt you’ll get to compose your own dirge - what a pity. You don’t want to be remembered for others’ words, don’t want to be remembered by someone who never truly knew you. (Did anyone ever truly know you? You ask. You doubt it.) 

You strum at your lute as more blood comes up, seeping through your clothes, paling your flesh and deepening the colour of the wood of your lute. Automatically, your fingers begin to play through the beginning of your greatest song, the one you gained your fame from, your muscle memory guiding you through the process. You can’t really think clearly anymore. 

Your mouth shapes the words as your throat works to force out the sounds that vaguely sound like the language you grew up speaking. Your voice is weak but your tune is strong, and you think to yourself that your time is almost over, that you’re nearly gone. Your fingers know what to do even when they’re too weak to hold the lute any longer and your voice carries on without the musical accompaniment. 

No one’s coming. No one will help you, and the most you can hope for is someone finding your body. No one will notice that you’re gone. You won’t be missed. You won’t be remembered, no one will remember your songs after you’re gone. Your legacy won’t live on without you, and your only friend won’t miss you. After all, Geralt was the one that sent you down, that brought you back to Earth after your hopeless dreams were crushed. 

It’s sad, but you’ve made your peace with it. You hope it comes quick. It seems like it’s soon. You can’t feel your fingers or toes or legs. You hadn’t noticed you had closed your eyes, but even when you open them the world seems dark and black. You close them once more - maybe the pain will all go away now.

You whisper to the wind, “Make me forget…” and the wind stays silent. You smile; always so quiet, your witcher.


End file.
